


The Bottle

by TheRecorder



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Dark, Disturbing Themes, M/M, Object Insertion, Objectification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRecorder/pseuds/TheRecorder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras lusted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> [This fic is emotionally brutal and might be triggery. It contains serious objectification...Tread carefully]  
> This was written in response to a kink meme prompt, cleaned up a bit from my journal. It was supposed to be crack. That's not what happened.  
> (Seriously though, I usually go for the happy, cracky stuff I really don't know where this came from)

Enjolras glowered at the bottle before him. Its owner’s face flitted before his eyes no matter how many times he rubbed at them.

 _“I know I failed, but I tried for_ you _. Please, Enjolras.”_

He had told him to get out. After the Barriere du Maine, he did not want to see Grantaire’s face. He had gotten him out the door, but he had protested even there.

_“Enjolras-!”_

_“Are you going to declare your love for me now?”_

He had meant it to be cruel, but not as cruel as to cause Grantaire’s face to falter and pale. He had backed away and left quickly after that and left Enjolras with more problems than he would have had if he had let the man stay.

The meeting was over, the other members long gone. The proprietors had long since given up turning out Enjolras before he was ready to leave so he was left alone.

That was the problem with passion, even anger. You always bore yourself, made yourself vulnerable. Enjolras had tried to be passionate about only the cause but somehow Grantaire could always get him riled to frustration.

Grantaire was his vulnerability. In more ways than anyone knew.

He knew what he felt was not love. It was not. It was…lust. Desire –no, not even that. Just pure, sexual want. He certainly did not long for Grantaire’s eyes to spark with passion, only hunger. He only wanted to tug at Grantaire’s hair in the heat of sex, not to caress his fingers through them. The only way he wanted to hold him close was to rut against and he only wanted to take the bottle from Grantaire’s lips in order to replace it with his cock.

So why was the worst thing he could throw at Grantaire an accusation of love? Every time he saw him, Grantaire gave him reason to condemn him for his cynicism, for his drinking. So why love?

Enjolras reached out and traced a finger over the tip of the bottle. He thought of Grantaire’s lips. The ones he did not want to kiss. That was too close to sentiment.

Was he afraid of love? Enjolras worried the answer was yes. He loved the cause, he loved the people; but a man? Another person, separate from the collective of France? A person who could, who has, let him down.

The cause would not betray him or break his heart. The cause would not throw barbed words with its mouth and plead with its eyes. The cause did not contradict itself, did not confuse him.

The cause did not scare him.

Grantaire scared him. He was so obviously a jaded idealist, scorned by the very beliefs he had held dear. He was the people without hope. He was Enjolras if he had chosen a less worthy cause and watched it crumble. After all, no one is born believing in nothing for all their life.

_“I believe in you.”_

Enjolras abruptly grabbed the neck of the bottle. No, that was not why Grantaire scared him. That was not it at all.

Enjolras closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He moved his thumb across the glass. Grantaire held his bottle this way. Grantaire held _this_ bottle this way.

Grantaire probably held his prick this way.

Yes, lust. That he could deal with. He moved his hand up and down slowly. Grantaire’s cock, heavy in his hand. Grantaire gasping and moaning. Grantaire calling his name, almost uncertain, but his eyes shining with trust-

Enjolras opened his eyes ripped his hand away from the bottle. _Trust._ Grantaire did not believe in the cause, but he did believe in Enjolras. He trusted Enjolras, no matter how bitter his opinions. If Enjolras told him to walk into certain death, Grantaire would skip. Grantaire _would die for him-_

_“Anything. Polish your boots.”_

That’s it. Grantaire on his knees, that Enjolras could handle. He would scrub diligently at the scuffs, staining his hands with polish, marking up his shirt and waistcoat. He would take them off, he would use them to shine Enjolras’s shoes because he wanted above all to please Enjolras, he wanted to be there, he wanted to be useful, he wanted Enjolras’s approval-

Enjolras whimpered, clutching his head. Why? It was the cause that he should follow, that he should _love_. Not Enjolras, never Enjolras, not so very, very human Enjolras, flawed Enjolras.

Grantaire’s love was innocent, pure; full of awe and worship. Enjolras’s only thoughts were to dirty him, to throw him down and fuck him, to hold Grantaire’s cock in place and thrust down, to make him cry and moan and enjoy it and want it and love him, always love him, never stop loving him no matter what he did, no matter what he said, no matter how much he scorned and punched and shouted.

He did not love Grantaire. He loved the idea of Grantaire, the dog with a human prick.

That’s what he wanted after all. Grantaire’s prick. That was it. Nothing more. Nothing. Nothing!

Grantaire was too good for this twisted possession. He did not deserve to be in love with someone like Enjolras.

Grantaire loved. Enjolras lusted.

Enjolras reached out and slid his fingers over the bottle. It was the right size. It was Grantaire’s. It was close enough.

He drew the bottle to the edge of the table and pulled off his coat and began undressing. He only wanted sex, after all. Why not?

He left his shirt on, though unbuttoned. He did not let himself think about vulnerability and baring oneself.

Enjolras crawled on the table and held the bottle in his hands. He moved his fingers over the top. He should wet it. He should.

He could not bring himself to put his lips where Grantaire’s had touched.

It was thin. With enough preparation, it would not be a problem.

He did not let himself question why he even bothered if his fingers would work better. Instead he put his fingers in his mouth and sucked, rubbing at his cock. He imagined it was Grantaire with his mouth on his fingers, his hand on his prick and this time Enjolras was able to keep up the image. Grantaire did not open his eyes in this illusion.

Enjolras took out his fingers and reached down. This was not the first time he had done this so he easily found the angle to slip the first finger in. He grabbed the bottle with his other hand and squeezed as he moved his finger around enough to allow a second.

He gasped and drew the bottle close, the glass cold on his thigh. He slipped in another finger and pulled them apart, stretching the muscle. He worked himself open and moved his hand up and down the bottle.

Enjolras pulled his fingers out, panting. He looked at the bottle. Grantaire’s bottle. Grantaire’s.

He found he could put his mouth on it. He took it into his mouth, much like how he wanted to take Grantaire’s cock. He sucked and slid his tongue over and around it, pulling back and dipping forward in a steady beat.

Enjolras’s hand found his prick and he grasped it and moved in time to his mouth on the bottle.

Just as he felt he was nearing orgasm, he removed hand and mouth and took a moment to steady himself.

It would not be slick for long. He kneeled and positioned the bottle at his entrance and nudged it in. He had touched and licked the neck enough that it was no longer cool, but it did not have the heat of human flesh.

He did not care.

He pulled it back and then pushed forward, alternating between moving it himself and thrusting down. The flare of the bottle prevented him from going in more than the barest few inches, but he didn’t care.

He moaned and imagined Grantaire’s hands at his hips. Even with Enjolras’s best efforts at fantasy, this Grantaire’s hands fluttered, unsure and Enjolras thrust back viciously. Grantaire groaned his name. Grantaire called his name. Grantaire gasped his name.

Grantaire whispered his name.

Enjolras froze and opened his eyes.

Grantaire stood in the doorway, eyes wide and completely still save for a slight tremor in his hands. He was pale and looked uncertain and intimidated.

Enjolras grinned lazily.

“Grantaire,” he drawled and thrust back. He gave a drawn out moan.

Grantaire’s throat worked and he swallowed, “Is that my bottle?”

Enjolras groaned and pulled at his cock to draw attention to it.

“Something wrong?” he asked breathily and moved his hips in a way that drew a series of noises from him, “Ah, _Grantaire_.”

Grantaire loved. He did not lust. He will be repulsed. He will go away. He will be saved from loving a man like Enjolras.

He started thrusting back and forth in earnest. He made his moans loud and his breaths hissed.

Enjolras watched Grantaire through half-lidded eyes. Grantaire did not leave.

“This, ah, doesn’t comp-ah! Ha…compare to the real thing.” Enjolras slid the bottle out and placed it on the table before him, still shiny and slick. He sat back carefully and then took his cock in hand and stroked it casually.

“I don’t…” Grantaire muttered, eyes darting to the ground but ultimately unable to look away from Enjolras.

“Don’t?” Enjolras smirked, “Don’t want to? Why not? I’ve wanted you to fuck me for a while.”

He reached out with his other hand and made the same motions on the bottle as he did his cock.

“This is not what I… I don’t want this. I don’t want you like this, in this way.”

“Since when have I cared what you wanted?”

Grantaire stiffened and Enjolras noted triumphantly a flash of hurt on his face.

Grantaire was silent for a long moment.

“I love you, you know.”

“I know. I will never love you.”

“I know.”

Grantaire looked down. Enjolras thought he would sputter excuses and leave. Leave and never come back, never look at Enjolras again, never want to be at his side, never die for him.

Grantaire lifted his head.

“If you want me to fuck you, I will.”

Enjolras stopped in his motions and scowled. He climbed off the table and walked right up to Grantaire, a hand’s breadth away and noticed bitterly that Grantaire’s breath hitched. He brought his lips to Grantaire’s ear, pressed his body against his chest.

“Fuck me?” he whispered harshly, “With what?”

He reached down with his hand and grabbed Grantaire’s soft cock through his trousers.

“With this? If fucking myself with your bottle in front of you can’t get you aroused, how do you expect to pleasure me?”

He pressed himself closer against him and hissed in his ear, “All those words about my beauty and you can’t even get it up with me naked and hard.”

Grantaire whimpered when Enjolras squeezed him cruelly.

“I can find a way if that is how I can be useful,” he insisted.

Enjolras tore away and slapped him hard across the face.

“You sickening fool,” he spat, storming back to the table. He began to pull his trousers on, “What use do I have for you?”

“Wait!” Grantaire stumbled forward, falling to knees in front of Enjolras, pleading, “I can be useful. I can’t fuck you, but I can suck you off. You won’t mind that, right?”

He was begging. He was begging to be used like Enjolras had used that bottle.

Enjolras wanted to say yes. He wanted Grantaire on his knees, earnestly sucking his cock, desperate to please. He wanted to see Grantaire lap at his prick like a cat with cream. He wanted to see Grantaire struggle to hold more than he was able in his mouth, balanced on the edge of choking, still trying to take more. He wanted to see Grantaire like that. He wanted Grantaire to want to do that.

He wanted Grantaire alive.

“You want to please me?”

“Yes!”

Enjolras pulled his coat over his shoulders.

“Then never come back here again.”

He left Grantaire alone in the back room.

Grantaire loved Enjolras. Enjolras loved him too much to let him.

-

It was the one command Grantaire could never obey. He was there at the café at the next meeting.

He did not drink, only stared at his bottle on the table before him. Sometimes he reached out, only to draw back his hand before his fingers touched.

When no one was paying attention, Enjolras grabbed the back of his collar and hissed, “Every time your lips touch the glass, I want you to remember how you are worthless to me. That would please me.”

Surely no one would stay where they were unwanted.

Grantaire picked up the bottle and took a gulp.


End file.
